God's Graffiti
by wobbear
Summary: Fluffy, sort of. GSR


**God's Graffiti**

**Author** wobbear  
**Rating** a light T  
**Pairing** Grissom/Sara  
**Disclaimer** Nope, I still don't own them  
**Spoilers** none. Set season 6 to 7-ish.  
**Author's note** I wrote this when I should have been finishing _Blackbird_. It's a strange little fic and I'm entirely too fond of alliteration, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway.

**Summary** Fluffy, sort of. GSR

* * *

It's been a long and eventful night, but at last shift is almost over and I've finished dealing with the damage control paperwork. As I sign off the top sheet and close the file with a heart-felt sigh of satisfaction, Sara stomps into my office, fresh from her shower. Lemony fresh, in fact. Her hair is wet, and the gooey slime all gone. Sara huffs as she flops into one of the visitors' chairs, still annoyed it seems. Certainly she had a very unpleasant experience, but dealing with the resultant paperwork wasn't a whole bunch of fun either.

"I'm sorry, honey. I tried to catch you, but I was trying to avoid contaminating the crime scene."

She squeezes her eyes closed, as if in pain, and waggles her hands side to side to stop me speaking. I button my lip with alacrity and try to look supportive. But unless she can see through her eyelids, the effort is lost.

What on earth possessed me to say that?

Given that Sara slipped on a pile of decomposing burro manure and was catapulted face first into our 419, a three-month ripe decomp, thoroughly compromising the scene out near Mount Charleston, my failed attempts to help don't bear reiterating.

After a very silent pause, she opens her eyes and now I'm being fixed with a fiery burnt umber glare. "Gee, thanks. Like I needed another reminder of what I just spent the last hour washing off."

It's my turn now to raise my hands, but mine is a defensive gesture. "I--I …"

Her shaking head stops me before she says, "Forget it, Gil. It's not about that."

There follows a pregnant pause, a querulous quietus, a significant silence, a telling time, an utter … Ah, yes, I should be concentrating on my colleague, my beloved.

"So …" Open-ended questions, or even non-questions, are best. I've read a lot about interrogation technique. Not totally appropriate perhaps, but I have to work with what I know.

Sara gets up and I think for a moment she's walking out, but instead she closes my office door. No-one will enter now without being invited in. That system works well. She sits back down, furrowing her brow but not yet speaking.

Evidently I need to try harder. "So, what _is_ the matter?"

"I … saw … something," she finally forces out. "In the shower."

"Uh, if there are, um, roaches or anything, I can retrieve them―"

"No. No!"

Her vehemence surprises me, but I'm quick on the uptake. It's not about bugs.

She huffs a little more and wraps her foot around the chair leg, twisting her torso around so she's facing the metal shelving rather than me.

I wait.

I wait a little longer.

I open my mo―

"A hair, okay? A hair." She stares pointedly at me, as if willing me to understand.

"A hair." A hair? I settle for shaking my head and shrugging to show my bafflement.

"A _gray_ hair."

"Um ... I see." Or rather, I can't see it. "It's not noticeable, Sara."

Wrong response. She's glowering now.

Maybe she pulled it out? Better not to ask.

I really have no idea what to say now. So I try my supportive expression again. At least she's looking at me this time.

Through clenched teeth she grinds out a reply. "It's not on my head."

Sara looks down at her interlaced fingers, in her lap.

Her lap.

Oh.

Ah.

"Really?"

I swear that slipped out by mistake.

She hisses, "Yes."

"That, ah, hair there, you know … it's not the main attraction in the, uh, area." Or even … the mane is not the attraction.

I tilt my head to the side and risk a cautious grin.

"Yeah, but…" She's not ready to get over it yet. "That discovery, on top of an already crappy day—"

I put my finger up to interrupt her. "But you can't have forgotten … ?" I raise my eyebrow in a question.

At Sara's blank stare, I helpfully remind her, " You said it yourself."

She shrugs again and gestures for me to go on.

" 'Gray hair can be very attractive'," I quote.

She's makes a weak attempt at a smile as I stand, holding my hand out to her. "C'mon, let's go home."

I tug her up from the chair, a salacious smirk on my face. "I want to check it out."

Sara giggles as we go out the door.

* * *

Gray hair is God's graffiti.

—Bill Cosby


End file.
